


Follow My Lead

by Other_Pens



Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: I am making this all up I know nothing about dancing or working in television don't @ me., Multi, also there's sexual harassment, and spinal injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 05:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13968342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Other_Pens/pseuds/Other_Pens
Summary: An AU where Lydia, Felix, and Edmund form a panel of judges on a British version of So You Think You Can Dance? with the terrible beauty and drive of dance; and also we're going to take a hard look at power structures and workplace harassment.





	1. Prologue

  
Lydia reached for her glass of perfectly-chilled sparkling water as Edmund reached into the pocket of his finely-tailored suit-jacket and retrieved a plain, cream-coloured envelope, tossing it almost indifferently onto the tablecloth and sliding it towards her with two fingers and a smirk she already found to be more biting than the snap of the fizz in her drink.

Around them, the early-afternoon rush at Scott’s created the kind of hushed hum of low conversation and the delicate rattle of dishes and silverware that seemed the inescapable drone which underscored any such establishment, made exclusive by its prices and clientele.

She opened the envelope just enough to peer inside, before looking back up at Edmund with a small, tightly-controlled smile.

“Swan Lake? I’ve seen it. Several times. But thank you.”

“Oh, go on, Lydia,” said Edmund, his aura of expectant confidence never wavering. “Matthew himself sent me a pair of tickets, and…well, one doesn’t want to refuse an old friend. Have you other plans?”

Lydia leveled an inscrutable look at him over the rim of her glass for a moment. Her calendar was almost a barren wasteland at the moment, and few people knew it quite so well as Edmund Tavistock-Whitby. She was lunching with him, which rather proved the point.

“No,” she said, sparing her pride by cleaving to the pretense that she was giving him brand-new information.

“Look, I know it sounds a little drear,” he cajoled her as he reached for his own drink—something alcoholic with an obscene price tag. “But it’s the opening night, and in light of the forthcoming announcement that you’ll be joining the show, press will be scrambling for a good and recent photo, and they’ll have one of you on a red carpet looking fabulous.”

“And on your arm,” she returned pertly, still with that small smile.

“I’ll looking fabulous, too. Anyway, it’s my show, why shouldn’t I be chummy with my newest colleague?”

“Is that not what we’re doing now? Post-contract-signing lunch-meeting?” she asked.

“See, the moment you say the word _meeting_ , all my feelings of goodwill simply shrivel to a husk,” he said.

_Goodwill…is that what he calls it?_ thought Lydia, who reached for her water again and wondered how swiftly one could bolt down a few scallops and leave without seeming overtly rude.

“…so, you want less friendly-luncheon and more of an…evening outing?”

“Why not?” he said, regarding her with a kind of smug satisfaction which would normally have gotten her hackles up and made her instantly refuse. But for Lydia Armstrong, it had hardly been a normal year.

She clenched her teeth for a moment, then murmured a hollow ‘thank you’ to the server who set their dishes down in front of them.

“Well, I’ll give it some thought, Edmund,” she said at last, picking up her fork as her appetite disappeared completely.

“You’re not entirely without friends in the dancing world, Lydia…” he said in a lower voice. “I could prove it to you, if you’ll let me.”

“…that’s kind of you to say,” she managed. “I’ll let you know, after I’ve checked my schedule—everything’s been in such upheaval I wouldn’t be surprised if something had slipped my mind.”

Edmund leaned back in his chair, and Lydia could almost see him swallow a knowing scoff.

“…apparently, they’ve trained up that new wunderkind—Evelyn Harpole,” he ventured, trying a new tactic. “He’ll be making his debut, and they’ve wooed back Felix Sutcliffe to dance The Prince.”

“Oh?” Lydia could not help the note of interest in her tone. She’d been hiding from dance-gossip for so long that she almost felt ashamed of her ignorance of even the news she wanted to hear.

“Aha,” chuckled Edmund, much too satisfied that his gambit had worked.

“…well isn’t it right I should take an interest in young talent?” she said, bristling at last, now that she felt she could do so without her colleague-boss’ male pride taking a direct lashing. “The whole concept of the programme is aimed at discovering and mentoring deserving individuals.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly, reaching for the bottle of mineral water and topping up her glass without being asked. “And as long as it can persuade you over to my side, I shan’t complain.”

_God, it’s only one night, you’re a grown woman._

“Aren’t you the lucky one, then?” she fired back, coolly tart.

“Always have been,” said Edmund, with a wink.

\---

All in all, it wasn’t a bad evening. Lydia had felt far deeper stings of discomfort than sharing a car with Edmund and his ego, though the scent of his expensive and tastefully-applied cologne somehow felt as if it wanted to choke her when he’d leaned over to give her a greeting kiss on the cheek.

“You look marvellous; but then I knew you would,” he said appreciatively, and Lydia only murmured the blandest of thank-yous in reply. If she’d agonized over her appearance, it was more due to the awareness of the media presence at the opening, rather than any desire to please Edmund’s eye.

There had been a few questions she’d half-heard shouted from the gang of photographers and journalists when Edmund had helped her from the car and escorted her towards the theatre doors, but Lydia had taken a firm stance on ignoring anything anyone shouted at her from several months, and upon hearing anybody call her name, her now almost-instinctive response was to drop down a mental curtain which seemed to blur anything that followed—her very own shield of cotton wool. It didn’t block everything, but it deadened the impact, at least.

“Lydia! Any word on what Martin—”

Her smile was frozen in place, and Edmund had the sense not to stop any longer than they need to in order to pose for a few of the cameras, his hand covering hers where she’d taken his arm. Even if it was the eternally-infuriating Edmund Tavistock-Whitby, it was almost comforting, in a way, to have that pressure, that guidance, drawing her through a clear path to the blessed relief of being indoors and away from the hubbub.

“We sailed through that rather well, I thought,” commented Edmund as they’d passed the bar and he turned to get them each a flute of champagne.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t…”

“Just for tonight,” he interrupted her, hardly letting her hesitate before he pressed it into her hand. “It’s really not even all that different from that bloody sparkling water you guzzle all the time.”

“Mmm, that’s true, it’s just the silly little bit of alcohol in it, really,” she retorted sarcastically.

“Precisely,” he said, utterly unrepentant. “Now, who can I introduce you to that you don’t already know or dread? Is there anybody we can make squirm for a few minutes’ fun before the bell?”

Lydia, who was almost grateful for his having shepherded her along the red carpet, felt suddenly tired of being churlish, tired of being defensive all the time, and wondered what it could hurt to let herself just be a little looser, for one night? Edmund was intolerable, yes, but few men weren’t—and powerful men inescapably so.

She finished her champagne so quickly she felt her stomach begin to churn slightly, and looked forward to the time when she could merely sit in a seat and watch some dancing. No doubt Edmund would feel the need to whisper in her ear whenever he felt he had something impressively clever or droll to say, but she’d been practicing that tight smile and non-committal murmurings. Another drink was downed, and somehow Lydia had found herself sucked into agreeing to attend an after-party Edmund had apparently already promised to bring her to.

She began to promise _herself_ that she’d invent some excuse to get a taxi and take off as soon as she could, but the stress of the evening and the effects of the champagne were beginning to blur her abilities to come up with something convincing. And when, in the darkness of the second act, the back of Edmund’s forefinger had come to rest against her bare arm with such nonchalance she would have presumed it wholly accidental in anybody _but_ a man like Edmund, she felt her face growing hot like she was some teenager in a cinema, and not a professional of some renown (formerly of pristine repute, now intermixed with a fair bit of dubious infamy, thanks to Martin.)

_Would it be so terrible? It wasn’t as if there were rules against it. We’re adults. I’m not with anybody. I don’t_ think _he’s with anybody…and the rest of his life is hardly my business. It’s not as if he’s made me an offer of marriage…_

Really, it was the barest whisper of contact, but Lydia wasn’t so stupid she could not clearly deduce Edmund’s intentions. They’d been circling each other like this for weeks as her contract was being negotiated to take the place of a retiring judge on the nation’s favourite competitive reality programme for young dancers in every style—the brainchild of wealthy ballroom legend Edmund Tavistock-Whitby. It was even…gratifying, almost, to feel as if the past months of dejected despondency as her ballroom dancing career had fallen apart hadn’t rendered her a shell of the woman she’d once been. She still had this. She was still attractive enough for a man like Edmund, a man known to have a taste for beauty in all things.

In a bid to distract herself from what she knew to be a magnetic and monumentally Bad Idea, Lydia riveted her gaze to the stage, her eyes following every movement of the dancers. Evelyn Harpole was good—extremely good—and the second-youngest principle appointed to the company after Polunin; and Sutcliffe was a veteran of his craft, and always a pleasure to watch.

Perhaps, she’d later tell herself, superstitiously, she shouldn’t have thought of Polunin while watching Harpole dance. Maybe she’d called up some kind of curse simply by recalling Sergei’s truncated sojourn with the Royal Ballet. Rationally, she knew this to be impossible, but what she saw unfold felt too achingly terrible to be cruelly random. Maybe the young dancer was nervous, maybe the jittery energy of an opening night performance grew too excruciating…

In the _pas de deux_ , Harpole launched himself into a leap half a second before the beat of music which ought to have synchronized with his movement, and Felix Sutcliffe’s razor-sharp reflexes kicked in with instinctive horror to catch his partner before the young man could miss the lift and crash to the stage. Both of them crumpled downward with a swiftness too jagged to be controlled, and the music could not even stop for the gasp of shock that rippled around the audience.

“Christ…” muttered Edmund roughly, shaken despite himself at what they’d just witnessed. Everything on stage seemed frozen in a suspended moment of uncertainty—and there was nothing quite so terrifying as that waiting.

Someone in front of Lydia stood up to gain a better view of the stage, and she averted her eyes at last, feeling sick, not wanting to see any more.

“He’s not moving,” she whispered, more to herself than anybody else, as murmuring speculation swelled around her.

“He could have broken both his legs if Sutcliffe hadn’t—”

“Is he conscious?”

“Even if he is, he’ll know better than to try to move until he’s been assessed…look, they’ve a medic on-stage, now…”

“I can’t stay.” Lydia stood abruptly, fishing blindly for her clutch purse.

“Lydia—” Edmund stood too. “It’s a packed house…”

“I’m going,” she insisted.

“Well, alright—just wait a moment, I can…”

She didn’t wait for his arm this time, and there were more than a few people beginning to make their way to the exits, either from a similar revulsion at what they’d just seen, or a sour-faced realization that if the show _was_ to go on, the two leads would likely be replaced by understudies, which was not why they’d paid for opening-night tickets to see Harpole and Sutcliffe dancing.

Lydia somehow found herself in the foyer, waiting for an attendant at the coat-check who had scurried off with her slip.

“Lydia!” Edmund appeared at her elbow, looking as flustered as any man could in bespoke tailoring, evidently having been caught in more of a crush than she had. “God, I know it’s terrible, but it’s no reason to go flying out in a panic.”

“Thank you for an interesting evening, Edmund,” she said, collecting her coat over her arm without bothering to put it on as she made a beeline for the exit—until Edmund circled in front of her to block the way.

“I’m sure they’re doing everything to…they have the best people on-hand, right?” he continued. “He might’ve just been stunned or sprained something…look, it’s bloody awful to watch, of course it is—we’ve seen a thousand bad falls if we’ve seen one…but it’s no reason to cut the evening short, is it? You turning into a pumpkin isn’t going to help anyone—you’ll just dwell on your darker fears sitting at home by yourself. Come out for a drink or two—we can skip the party,” he said, as if he was making a great concession. “Just you and I and a quiet little corner, someplace.”

“No. Thank you.”

“…at least let me see you home!” he said, with the edge of frustration of a man not used to losing control of any situation.

“I don’t need looking-after!” snapped Lydia, suddenly sick of all his self-serving manipulations masquerading as chivalry. Sick of herself for having lost sight of that truth.

“Of course you do,” he fired back, his temper flaring at last in the dry dismissal of his tone. “No, don’t feel badly—a bit of desperation looks utterly charming on you, Lydia. Why do you think I was enthralled into hiring you?”

Her lips twitched, and she had the most perverse desire to laugh.

“Well, if it wasn’t for my being an expert in my field, I am very much looking forward to showing you just how consummate a professional I can be, Edmund,” she said, with an icy smile this time. “I’ll see you at work,” she went on sweetly, the unspoken addendum being that she wouldn’t be caught dead with him anywhere else, ever again. “Goodnight.”

Much as her indignant fury—directed at several individuals and circumstances at once—burned brightly beneath her breastbone like indigestion, she could not banish the nauseous shaking that wanted to grip her in its clammy fist as she made her escape to find a taxi on the street outside the theatre, certain that Edmund’s hardening gaze was boring a fiery hole into the back of her head as she’d left him.

“… _bitch_ ,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head to himself as he surveyed the gathering crowds for a means of salvaging what remained of his night.

“… _prick_ ,” she whispered as she sank back against her seat in the taxi, rubbing away a single tear from her cheek with the heel of her hand.


	2. Chapter 2

_[my morals got me on my knees / I'm beggin' please / stop playin' games ](https://open.spotify.com/track/78twQ5XCFJMTE37ZSU0gsj) _

** Two Years Later **

The burst of applause in the studio faded and Lydia tried not to squint beneath the lights as Graham Norton leaned forward in his seat, tapping his cards on his knee. Edmund was entirely relaxed on the sofa beside her, his arm draped across the back of it just carelessly enough that he knew she’d sense its presence at her back. She leaned forward to pick up her glass of Perrier and take a hasty sip, which let her sit up straighter, and more on the edge of her seat, praying the PR demons wouldn’t whinge at her for having stand-offish body-language while she was out to promote the show and all its warm camaraderie.

It would have been much easier if she and Edmund didn’t wholly despise one another, but _c’est la vie_.

“Now, Lydia, it’s been a while since we’ve had you on…” said Graham in his usual cheery sing-song.

She let out a brief, half-self-conscious laugh which she hoped wasn’t too on-the-nose. Hadn’t it been long enough since her dancing-partner had left her amid the wreckage of her career and their marriage?

“It has,” she admitted. “But I’ve been busy,” she reminded him.

“No doubt, no doubt—co-judging what is now now the most popular dance competition programme in the country—” another outbreak of applause to which Lydia could only give an appreciative and practiced nod of gracious humility. “I mean,” continued Graham. “Taking the crown—or the mirror-ball trophy, at it were—from _Strictly Come Dancing_ has got to be a hell of an accomplishment.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s on the top of my CV,” Lydia managed to joke, setting her glass back down and lacing her fingers together over one leg where she’d crossed her knees, hoping the posture seemed natural enough. “We all love _Strictly_ , of course, but what’s really special about our programme, and what I think a lot of people love about it, is that we get to see all sorts of styles of dance, and really—the very hard work that these extremely talented young people put into what they do.”

“Well, there’s a lot of cross-over between the worlds of your show and _Strictly_ ,” said Graham.

“We’re all mad for a bit of ballroom,” interjected Edmund, with his most charming smile.

“Of course, you—both of you—made your names in ballroom dancing…” Lydia could only nod in stiff acknowledgement. “Now, Alice—lovely Alice—is off away now, is she?”

“Yes,” said Lydia, feeling as though she were being fed lines to respond to the usual questions. “She’s…she actually texted me, last week, and she and baby are both doing really well. She’s over the moon.”

“Ah…” A round of cooing from the cluckier portion of the audience. “The epidural will wear off any minute now,” riffed Graham, to more widespread laughter. “But the big question is, now, for the upcoming season—who’s going to be taking her seat on the judge’s panel? Can you tell us anything? A former contestant, perhaps?”

“I…” Lydia looked to Edmund, who only smiled at her a little, and then hastened to try and think of something to fill the silence. “I really can’t say…no, I mean I honestly can’t say, because I don’t even know.”

“You know _nothing_?”

“I have been kept entirely in the dark,” said Lydia, holding up both hands and trying to make light of it even as she seethed inwardly. “I have asked and asked, but…” She looked at Edmund with both brows raised, willing him to actually do anything other than be a self-satisfied knobhead.

“It’s a surprise, Graham,” he said. “People like surprises.”

“No, I don’t think they do,” said Norton. “And _definitely_ not as much as they love hints.”

“Look, if I haven’t told Lydia anything—and I would trust her with my life—there’s really no hope for anyone else,” said Edmund, shrugging.

“And does that trust go both ways?”

“Well, I’ve kind of got to, since he holds all the cards,” protested Lydia, trying to keep her tone light.

“And playing them very close to his chest, indeed,” was Graham’s rejoinder.

“Dancers who do partner-work need to have that trust, it’s so vital,” said Edmund. “And while we’ve never danced together, we both understand that kind of blind faith you need to have in each other, asking no questions, not fighting to lead…we see that come up on the show, time and time again, with so many couples, particularly where contestants may have only ever done solo-work. It’s a valuable lesson everybody needs to learn.”

Lydia couldn’t tell if she was thankful or furious that she couldn’t set people on fire with sheer willpower.

Graham made a face of aghast shock.

“Hang on a minute—you’ve never danced together? You’re both ballroom, aren’t you?”

Lydia felt the cold dousing of terror put out whatever burning embers of hatred were flaring to life in the pit of her stomach, and she swiftly shook her head.

“Were,” she said. “But it…it’s not about us and our dancing, really. We’re here to help mentor the next generation of dancers.”

“Yes, yes, but I think we’d all like to see a bit of what the experts have to teach us.”

The audience cheered wildly at the suggestion and Lydia could have gladly set them all alight with her mind in that moment, even if they had no way of knowing her anger and humiliation.

“Oh, come on, then,” said Edmund, as if he wasn’t at all surprised by this turn of events as he stood from the sofa and offered his hand to her, as the screeching intensified.

_You utter bastard_ , thought Lydia as she hoped she could pass off whatever emotions were playing across her face as embarrassment, later on. She only surrendered the tips of her fingers to his grip, and rose, letting him conduct her to a cleared area on the other side of the sound-stage, while Graham calmed the enthusiastic audience and called to the director to play something suitable, and Lydia heard the familiar rhythms of Duffy filter through the speakers. Edmund apparently thought of everything in that sick, self-centered mind of his.

There had been too many years of competitions riddled with stress and crises to throw Lydia off of the one thing she knew how to do well, and the muscle memory clicked her every limb into its proper place as Edmund extended their clasped hands a little and rested his other palm against her back. The scent of his cologne had haunted her every worser moment for the past two years, and this one was no different, even as she brought up her free hand to his shoulder.

“Do I need to remind you who’s leading?” he asked quietly, with that half-cocked smile.

“As if you could let anyone forget,” she murmured, turning her face to the side as he began to guide her into the dance.

It was nothing, really—a few careless steps and spins—but the unison of their movement, the sharp confidence of the quick turns, and the effortless-seeming grace of their transitions was enough to make the two-step shuffling audience gasp and applaud after all of fifteen seconds.

Lydia knew it couldn’t last forever, and that it was nothing, after all. It was only the fact that it was Edmund and that he’d forced her hand in this that it only _felt_ as if time were stretching itself out into achingly unbearable minutes.

He’d always had impeccable timing, and he knew it was only to be a brief demonstration. Minimum effort, for maximum applause…that was Edmund’s _modus operandi_. He spun her into one last theatrical promenade before tugging her back into the spiral that left her coiled in his arms, letting the dim thunder of the audience half-dull their senses as their heartbeats went to war with one another.

Lydia grit her teeth and turned to offer the spectators a practiced little curtsy and a smile while Edmund retained his hold on her hand as if it were his duty to do so. She’d managed to smile when her husband had walked out on her. She’d damn well smile, now.

She was walking back towards that bloody red sofa, then, without much idea of what else was going on around her, only determined to get to it and have a sip of her sparkling water.

“—the show airs at 8 o’clock on Thursday evenings this autumn…” Graham was reading from his notes for the plug; and as Lydia sat down, still wearing her too-bright smile, she felt the brush of Edmund’s arm as he settled back into his former position.

\---

Lydia was fishing through her handbag for her purse when she heard the door of the green-room click softly behind her.

“Don’t suppose you fancy sharing a taxi?” asked Edmund, drily sarcastic.

“No,” she said shortly. “But you _can_ tell me who the new judge is going to be. I don’t appreciate being left without an answer for the media chat. If we’re both going to be trotted out to promote the show, I really think I ought to be privy to enough information to look comparably competent.”

Edmund looked at her for a long moment, thoroughly savouring his own power before he rolled his eyes as if he were indulging her.

“Felix Sutcliffe,” he said shortly. “No company will sign him after his injury, of course…”

“I thought he was recovering?”

Edmund shrugged.

“I take it a spinal fracture is a tricky thing. Whatever the case may be, he’s no good to anybody as a dancer, for the present, but he knows his business, so I had him sign on for a season.”

“Just the one?”

He let out a brief bark of laughter.

“I learned my lesson with you and your three-year contract,” he said acidly. “You’re the last person to be extended that privilege to abuse.”

“Abuse!” Lydia felt her jaw drop as she rounded on him, her hands balling into fists at her side. “I’ve abused my privilege by not sleeping with you? By simply resenting that you go out of your way to undermine me, professionally, at every opportunity you can get away with? That you drag me off to perform like a circus pony?”

“I thought you danced beautifully, darling,” he said, unshakeably calm as he helped himself to an apple from the bowl of fruit on the table and bit into it. “No, Lydia, my issue with you is your attitude. I’ve had to put up with two years of poisonous little barbs and disrespect when you owe your job—your very _successful_ job—to me. I’m a little astonished that you seem to think I wouldn’t have noticed…or that I would just, what, let it go?”

“Oh, _I’m_ the problem? Because I’m not being _professional_ enough for you?” said Lydia dryly, . “Sorry, _I’m_ a little astonished that you actually seem to genuinely believe your own bullshit.”

“Some gratitude would be nice, is all,”

“ _Gratitude?_ You really are the fucking limit, Edmund,” she snapped, setting her jaw to the side and turning back to her handbag.

It was almost wearingly predictable when she looked down and saw his hands resting on the edge of the table, one on each side of her as he leaned down to speak softly, slowly into her ear.

“You’ve been paralyzed for two years, Lydia,” he said. “This show is all you have. The chance to make yourself relevant again is long gone. You _might_ have managed to rebuild some kind of career on the brief infamy of the fallout after your husband ran screaming for the hills, but now you’re just a judge on a panel—the plastic, platitude-spewing, textbook-example of what it means to be washed up.”

Lydia knew she couldn’t straighten her spine without pressing against him more than she already was, and so she could only bite down against the rage that made her tremble with its force.

“Which makes _you_ what, exactly?” she shot back. “You haven’t done much dancing lately, yourself.”  
  
“I made the show,” said Edmund, still in that same soft cadence, as if he were having to patiently explain a simple concept to a confused child. “I run the show. I own the show. It’s mine. All of it.” He turned his head, then, as if he were going to give her a light kiss on the cheek, and Lydia instinctively jerked her face away, and only heard him chuckle.

All at once, his hands were gone, and the oppressive heat and scent of him retreated, with only the lingering drift of his fingertip tracing a line down the nape of her neck in a bid to make her shudder before he’d finished toying with her for the time being.

“Never compare yourself to me again, Lydia,” he said as he turned to leave. “It breaks my heart to watch you disappoint yourself. Again.”


	3. Chapter 3

[ _weird people on the dance floor / we're just doing what we came to do_ ](https://open.spotify.com/track/2yMuON1PKeU6cwj8U1MGaj%20)

\---

Lydia stuck her pen into the haphazard bun at the back of her head and pinned her bottle of water to her ribs with her elbow as she wended her way through the cramped back halls of the venue to find the dressing-rooms, a notepad, binder, and pencil-case clutched in her arms.

“Call for make-up was a quarter of an hour ago,” tutted Edmund as he strolled past her, already impeccably finished and carrying nothing but his newest iPhone and a cup of coffee he’d sent a lower-level sound engineer to fetch from some bijou Italian bakery nearby, rather than drink whatever was on-offer for everybody else.

Lydia forced herself to bite her tongue rather than even scramble for some kind of snappy response, knowing her chances of landing a hit in return were slim, and that it only gave Edmund the utmost satisfaction to see her splutter. Ignoring him as best she could, she set her shoulder to the door of the hair and make-up department…and only recalled her bottle when the top popped off, letting a hefty glug of cold water douse the front of her crisp white dress-shirt.

“Shitting shit _shit_!” she burst out in a hiss that was little more than a whisper, half-fancying she could hear Edmund let out a laugh as he continued on his way.

“Oh no!” Rosanna’s exclamation was more sympathetic than panicked, as she laid aside her sponge and brush and moved to help, already fishing for a towel. “Not to worry—we can just wave the hair-dryer at you while I do your face, first.”

It was only when Lydia looked up that she realized her newest co-judge was looking on with some brow-furrowing concern from his chair, already tugging away the tissue which had protected his suit from any spills or dustings of powder.

“…sorry…for swearing like that…” she managed tersely—but Felix Stucliffe only smiled.

“It’s entirely justified,” he assured her. “If it’d been tea, I’d’ve been offended if you _hadn’t_ gone for a full string of imaginative words.”

“Yeah, it’s just…this shirt needs to be pressed,” protested Lydia. “Even when I get it dry, it’ll wrinkle and I’ll look like some insomniac receptionist who’s losing her grip on national television.”

“Look, if you maybe hang on to the bottom and keep it under tension while I hold the hair-dryer and Ros lays her foundation or whatever witchcraft it is she performs, I think it’ll be alright,” said Felix easily.

“…thanks,” she said, putting her jumble of stuff down on the nearest free surface and sitting in an empty chair before one of the lit mirrors with a sigh as they all took their places to get everything done as quickly as possible. Her shirt _did_ dry in fairly short-order, and it didn’t look as badly as she’d feared it would.

“And if you’re still worried, you can just borrow my pashmina,” said Rosanna. “Hot under the lights, I know, but it’s not an enclosed space.”

“No, no, I think it’ll be alright.” Lydia blew out a slow breath as Ros finished touching some colour to her lips, then stood back and peered at her critically.

“More concealer under your eyes, my darling,” she said gently, dabbing the stick against her skin.

“Why am I not surprised?” said Lydia with a flat chuckle.

“You need to pace yourself, this series,” said Rosanna, before she turned to Felix, who was now neatly coiling the cord of the hair-dryer. “Don’t take your cues from Lydia—she works harder than is healthy for anyone.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like I’m doing any heavy lifting,” protested Lydia as Rosanna took a brush to her hair—pausing to hand her back her pen—and began to spritz and twist it into an artfully casual sort of knot which would hold up in the following hours.

“Me neither,” said Felix with half a grin.

There was a beat of silence as they all clocked the elephant in the room, but since he’d brought it up in the first place, Lydia felt secure enough to go with it.

“…how are you feeling, anyway?” she asked, couching the inquiry in more general-wellness terms, hardly daring to pry too deeply into the specifics of his injury. There were moments the ballet-dancer’s chilling collapse still rose up to haunt her memory, even after two years.

“Oh, right as rain,” said Felix—so breezily that both of Lydia’s eyebrows rose.

“Well that would explain the desk-job,” she said, immediately feeling like the world’s biggest bitch for getting sarky with a man who’d fractured his spine…but Felix Sutcliffe had the astounding grace to _smile_ , albeit sheepishly.

“Fair point,” he conceded. “But the physio’s going well…” _When I remember to keep my appointments._ “…and my pain is pretty manageable.”

The interfering busybody in Lydia wanted to needle him for more information, but she at least had the overwhelming impression that it was very much not her place to badger her newest colleague on their first day of real work for details of his injury to keep her from unleashing her meddlesome curiosity.

“That’s good…” she said lamely. “…if…if you ever need to talk to someone…”

Good _God_ , why had she said that? She knew she was, statistically-speaking, one of the worst people to talk to on the subject of personal trauma. But the offer had been—awkwardly—made, and she had to stand by it now, she supposed.

To his credit, Felix didn’t seem to openly give her the side-eye, but rather gave half a nod alongside his still-present smile.

“Thanks. That’s good to know.”

“…well, I’ve wasted enough of everyone’s time, already,” said Lydia, as Rosanna gave her hair a final all-over dusting of hairspray.

“Good to go!” said Ros. “If Edmund gets his panties in a twist, tell him ‘fuck off’ from me.”

“Tell him yourself—you’re in a union,” muttered Lydia as she stood.

“Och, this is the last series on your contract, isn’t it?” Lydia nodded, and Rosanna grimaced and opened her mouth, but Lydia cut her off with a minute shake of her head, her glance flicking over to Felix, who merely looked puzzled.

“…I’m only on a single-series contract, myself,” he began.

“I know,” said Lydia shortly. “Anyway, we’ll see how things shake out. Maybe Edmund wants to leave himself options for how the show develops after this year.” There was nothing Edmund liked better than being spoiled for choice…even if it meant leaving everybody else with no choice, whatsoever.

“He’s certainly very…” Felix seemed to be searching for a word.

“Mhmm,” said Lydia. “Save the judgements for the auditions,” she suggested, scooting out the door as quickly as she could. As Felix trailed behind her by a few steps, they made their way into the auditorium to where the judge’s table and chairs were set out in front of the stage, waiting for the performances of the hopeful dancers.

Lydia laid down her notepad and pen so she could take notes, and switched her phone to silent before she felt the clamp of familiar hands on her shoulders.

“You are carrying far too much stress in your neck for day one,” remarked Edmund, having taken it upon himself to pause in finding his own seat to oblige her with a gentle massage of the knots in her muscles.

“I slept awkwardly, that’s all,” she said quickly, knowing it was better to sit still than to squirm or try to shrug him off.

“I could show you some really good stretches, later, if you like,” suggested Felix. Edmund, vastly amused, leaned over to offer Sutcliffe a handshake.

“Welcome aboard and all that,” he said amiably. “Now, as far as personality goes, I like to play the curmudgeon who is not at all easily impressed…which tends to make our dancers really push themselves…” He gave Felix a wink. “Lydia, I suppose, being the only woman on the panel, has to take the maternal role, if you will—encouraging, sometimes disappointed if she knows people can do better…she’s very good at being disapproving.” Lydia reached for the fresh bottle of water which had been set out at her place and twisted off the cap so she could take a long swig, her mouth feeling like it was full of sand. “Alice used to be our den-mother, but, well…she went off to have a go at the real thing, poor soul.”

“I’m the Ballroom Bitch,” broke in Lydia, trying to be cheery about it, trying to make it into a joke. Like the rest of her job.

“Quite,” said Edmund dryly.

“Well, I would prefer to go for earnest encouragement in my judgement,” said Felix. “I don’t know about _maternal_ , but…”

“See, people expect certain things from their television,” said Edmund. “And, much as it pains my inner feminist to admit it, our audience will largely expect the woman’s touch to come from, well…Lydia.” He pronounced her name as if he’d just scraped it off the bottom of his shoe, and she could only smile grimly at Felix, who shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat.

_Inner feminist, my arse,_ thought Lydia mutinously.

“So any perspective I offer…” began Felix.

“I’d lean jocular,” suggested Edmund.

“Right.”

“Don’t worry—we get plenty of weird characters in the auditions, especially. You’ll get used to it in no time.” Satisfied with how he’d laid out his expectations for his colleagues, Edmund took his seat on Lydia’s other side, while she accidentally caught Felix’s eye and gave a slight roll of her eyes and a helpless little shrug.

“Okay everyone,” said the technician who had just joined them to check some cables. “Charlie’ll be over with your mic-packs any minute now, then we’ll run some sound-checks, and get started ASAP.”

Edmund was glancing over a handful of papers an assistant had just brought to him, rubbing his chin and chuckling to himself before he turned his gaze back to the auditorium to where dancers were beginning to gather, numbered sheets stuck or pinned to their torsos as they did some light warm-ups or ran through a few final steps in preparation.

“Excellent,” he said, turning back to face the stage with a smile that made Lydia sick to her stomach.

“…and that’s when _I_ said, ‘I’m really sorry, but when we said we wanted some personal story, I wasn’t exactly thinking of the untimely death of your pet iguana!’” A lanky redhead was telling Charlie, who snorted on a laugh as he brought the mic packs up to the judges and wordlessly began to thread wires down the backs of their collars and clip the battery packs to their waistbands. “Hallo, darlings!”

“Monty.” Edmund’s tone was positively clipped, and meant positively nothing to the gregarious Rawdon Montgomery IV—alias _Monty_.

“Felix Sutcliffe,” Felix introduced himself with a broad smile and a firm handshake.

“Ballet—love it,” said Monty approvingly. “Lydia…” He peered at her, squinting. “Ros should’ve used more concealer. Are you not sleeping, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine.”

Edmund reached for his coffee-cup.

“Can we get started _today_ , please?” he called out briskly to the auditorium at large, before lowering his voice back to its normal tone. “Monty, haven’t you got sob-stories to get on-camera for our most abyssal underdogs?”

“Yessir,” said Monty, unrepentant in the face of Edmund’s sour glance as he leaned over to plant a kiss on the top of Lydia’s hairsprayed head. “Talk to you later?”

“Sure,” said Lydia, waving him off before she checked her mic with the ease of practice and settled the collar of her blouse back into place. Not wanting to have Edmund in her line of vision any more often than was strictly necessary, she turned to look at Felix. “Ready?”  
  
“As I’ll ever be, I suppose,” he said, his gaze caught by the camera nearest them which would record their every reaction. Without quite meaning to allow it, he found his hands were shaking slightly when he laid them on the table. “…just like opening nights,” he mused with a bewildered little smile. “Haven’t felt that in a while.”

Without quite knowing why she did it, Lydia reached over to lay one hand over his for…what? Reassurance? Fiercely wanting to claim Felix for her side before Edmund could get to him with his winking and his jovial lip-service to laddish camaraderie? Lydia could hardly make any sense of the thousand-and-one worries whirling around her mind at that moment, but even on a slight acquaintance, Felix seemed…sweet. Which only made her fearful that he wasn’t quite entirely aware of what a viper’s nest he’d stumbled into, thinking it a stroke of luck and a new job. She knew she wouldn’t be pushed to _warn_ him to watch out for anything…but Edmund was just mercurial enough that he could make life hellish for anyone he decided he disliked.

Monty was the perfect example—there was no-one else Lydia could think of who could help liking the charismatic host, and yet Lydia had, over the past two years, witnessed an increasing antagonism which she was at a loss to explain. Perhaps Edmund felt that no-one else deserved to wield any charm whatsoever, when _he_ was in residence. It was childish and petty, but it would not have surprised Lydia one jot; and, as Monty didn’t seem to care—or even notice—and such was his appeal to the show’s audience that there would be an immediate outcry if he got the sack on any made-up basis Edmund could think of, Lydia didn’t waste too much time feeling she had to look out for Monty’s well-being, when she had enough problems to cope with, already.

Then, Felix looked at her, his smile widening, and Lydia realized, with some surprise, that she was smiling, too.


	4. Chapter 4

[we've never had it so good, uh-huh, we're out of the woods  
and if you can't detect the sarcasm, you've misunderstood](https://open.spotify.com/track/6TK4Gszcg4IqyW0Ewtejcd)

\---

Lydia felt the heat of the lights on her face, but never blinked as she carefully tracked the progress of the two dancers moving across the stage, music filling the auditorium. She always paid close attention, but whenever a ballroom number came up in competition, she felt every one of her hairs stand on end, knowing she would be scrutinized as much as the performers. Edmund could afford to rest on his laurels in his own show; and he exuded an effortless confidence in his own opinions which Lydia knew she’d catch shit for in an instant if she took the same tone as him. And not just from the producers…the everyman of the audience probably wouldn’t take too kindly to it, either. As the token woman judge, she could be anything and everything…as long as she wasn’t Too Much of either.

So Lydia kept everything in check, as carefully as she could—which wasn’t new, to her. Intelligent, without being too incisive. Supportive, without being smothering. Emotional, without being cloyingly maudlin. Performing as _herself_ was proving to be the most exhausting role she’d ever taken on.

“We’ll come to you, first, Lydia,” said Monty as the applause died down and the sequinned, bright-eyed contestants looked nervously to the panel, their hands clasped tightly together.

“To be completely honest, I have been worried about the two of you…” Lydia began, trailing off to give the director ample time to cut to the eye-widening anxiety writ large upon the pair of sweating faces, and despising herself for knowing she had to do it this way for the sake of television audiences. “Tuck, you came through the final rounds of auditions by the skin of your teeth, frankly, because we have all been blown away by what you can do when you are dancing in your own style. Cora, you have lovely lines, your timing is excellent, but in all fairness, that’s come to be the baseline of what we expect to see from contemporary dancers who make it onto this programme. I’ve really been wondering if you two would manage to find a way to click as a couple, in only a week, as well as trying to overcome your individual challenges, _and_ in making a go of things in a style neither of you have danced before.” She shook her head slowly at them. “You knew it was going to be difficult, and you knew it was going to be my job to pick holes in anything that went wrong…which is why I’m so relieved that you performed that waltz _beautifully_.”

There was a burst of applause and cheers from the studio audience as Tuck and Cora dissolved into broad grins and excitedly threw their arms around each other while Monty rolled his eyes.

“You’re awful,” he teased her, and Lydia had to laugh, a little.

“Now, Tuck—listen to me, your toes did need work—and you know I’m right—” Tuck was nodding a little bashfully, but his relief was evident. “And so this is the only time I’m going to let you off with a warning. Because you’ve shown me that you can give this your all, and you can achieve great things, and make the jump from krump into the ballroom. Cora…Cora, you were elegant, you were adorable, you were everything I wanted from this number, and the trust you had in your partner was crystal-clear from the word Go--so congratulations you two. I’m really delighted to see you continue in this competition.”

“Off to a great start, with the seal of approval from Our Lady of the Ballroom, now…Felix, your thoughts?”

“…uh…” Felix cleared his throat and shifted forward in his chair slightly. “…you guys, that was...”

“…hang on, hang on, are you _crying_?” said Edmund flatly into his microphone, to a ripple of audience laughter, at which Lydia’s head swung in her newest co-judge’s direction, only to catch him pressing his fingertips into the corners of his eyes.

“…wow,” muttered Lydia under her breath.

“It _was_ beautiful, alright?” said Felix, only slightly defensive. “Look, in the world of ballet, we’re always telling a story in how we move, and you just told us a great one,” he said, shifting his focus back to Tuck and Cora. “Who isn’t a sucker for a good waltz, honestly? If you can touch someone’s feelings in how you dance, there’s really nothing else of substance that can top that. Technical elements will come easily with enough practice, but the emotion of a piece is what can elude some dancers for years and years, and you are fortunate and talented enough—I’m not even sure which it is—that you’ve grabbed that for yourselves, already. Well done.”

“A gorgeous routine, certainly, and our thanks to our alumni, George and Freddie, for choreographing that for us,” said Edmund briskly, his plaudits having every appearance of graciousness even as Lydia knew he was practically reading from cue-cards in giving credit to anybody. It did help to maintain the appearance that everybody was all friends and goodwill on the show…and the audience adored Freddie and George, who had competed in the first series. While neither of them had won the competition—though Freddie made it to the finale—their blossoming romance had provided the show with more than one talking-point for tabloids and fan gossip.

Showmances were a guaranteed lightning-rod for intrigue, and Lydia would have been surprised if a series had gone by without one, but she was even more surprised that George and Freddie seemed to be the real deal. It had only been a few years, but they were still together, and now they were happily choreographing some of the show’s most popular ballroom routines for the new contestants. It was no golden anniversary, Lydia reflected wryly, but it had at least outlasted every other short-lived flirtation on the show. Nothing like the last series, certainly. Twitter had lit up every time Fran and Alfie had made an appearance, bickering their way through rehearsals with as many smiles as there were scowls, and enough heated tension to fuel weeks of _will-they-won’t-they_ speculation.

They wouldn’t, as it turned out. Some fans were still disappointed, and conspiracy theories ran rampant in certain more ridiculous corners of social media, as far as Lydia could see, but the pair seemed to have burned out almost immediately following Fran’s taking the trophy, and the two dancers were now no longer even on speaking terms.

_“It’s a ruse!!!”_ opined the entirely rational and unbiased-seeming @ForeverFralfie at the beginning of a 114-tweet thread.

But that was last series, this was this series, and for her own sanity Lydia was choosing to leave the past in the past and never breathe a word about any of it to anyone. Fran and Alfie were adults, and adults chose to go their separate ways all the time, for many reasons.

Lydia sat back in her seat as the stage was re-set for the next pair of dancers to perform and glanced darkly at Edmund’s profile before she set her jaw to the side and reached for her water-bottle.

_Even if sometimes they have a little help…_

\---

It was entirely too awkward to share a lift in total silence with anybody one knew even remotely, so Lydia hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and forced the words out of her mouth.

“You stayed late, too?” she said, stating the bloody obvious.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” said Felix, pocketing his mobile with a smile. “Swotting.”

“I hope Edmund’s attitude didn’t get to you, the other day,” she ventured hastily, the incident having rubbed her the wrong way ever since she’d felt Edmund’s cold sneer pass through her on its way over to Felix at the other end of the panel. “He’s very…old world.”

“That’s a very kind way of putting it,” said Felix with a laugh that immediately put her at greater ease. “I’ve been running around in tights since I was twelve, so I’m entirely used to having my masculinity called into question.”

“Being inured to something doesn’t make it fair or right,” she insisted, and Felix shrugged in agreement.

“No, but I can assure you it’s not going to make me re-think my own responses to anything.”  
  
“Good.” There was another moment of silence as the lift slid to a stop and the doors opened, with Felix having to gesture for Lydia to exit first—a kind of chivalry that had her momentarily off-balance before she briskly stepped out into the foyer. The unassuming building was a mixture of office-spaces and rehearsal rooms, and where everybody spent the majority of their working time when they weren’t filming the shows in the theatre venue. “Makes for a change, anyway,” she said, with a weary kind of brightness. “I won’t have to be the one getting weepy on camera all the time.”

“…they _make_ you do that?” asked Felix, mildly incredulous.

“If I don’t get tearful two or three times in a series the producers will sent me a note about seeming emotionally closed-off,” groused Lydia. “But it’s not that much of a hassle, really—there are some great performances, after all. It’s not hard to feel touched if you can just…let yourself feel that.”

“Does Edmund get notes for seeming emotionally closed-off?”

“ _Does Edmund get notes_?” scoffed Lydia, glancing over at Felix with a bitter burst of laughter. “Do you really think he does?” she countered, raising an eyebrow at him.

“No, no he doesn’t,” said Felix, pushing open the front door and holding it for her, throwing her off her stride for the second time in as many minutes. “But I’m actually really enjoying this. All of this. To learn about the different dance styles, to see so many fantastic young dancers putting everything they’ve got into doing some amazing things. It’s a great opportunity.”

“I guess you could see it that way.”

“Which way do you see it?”

“…it’s…it’s a job,” said Lydia, unnerved by the blunt curiosity, even if she could see he meant no harm by it. “I mean, yes, education, bringing dance to the masses, improving craft, inspiring young people, that’s all a fantastic sound-bite and you should definitely keep that in your back pocket for interviews, but…what I do, at this point…” She shrugged and gave a shake of her head. “It’s work. It’s hard work. And it’s work I need to do.”

“You don’t enjoy it? Not even a bit?”

“I enjoy parts of it,” she admitted. “Watching Tuck _waltz_ as well as he did, that was…God, I was so _proud_ of him. I’ve been around ballroom all my life and it’s…well, Edmund is a product of a very specifically entrenched and toxic kind of exclusivity in that world, and frankly I would be beyond thrilled to see a krumper like Tuck making everyone’s bigoted grandparents pop their monocles and spill their Dubonnet.”

Felix chuckled as they descended into the quiet near-desolation of the Tube station and tapped their cards against the readers.

“See? It’s not all bad,” he gleefully pointed out.

“No, not all. But then there are parts I…really hate.”

“The notes?”

“Among other things.” Lydia hopped onto the escalator and tried to move the conversation on just as quickly. “So, you’re a sucker for a waltz, huh?”

“Who isn’t? It’s…everything that’s languidly charming and tender.”

Lydia let out a snort and had to press her hand over her face to stop any more laughter bursting forth at his expense.

“Sorry…I didn’t mean to…sorry.”

Despite her floundering apologies, Felix didn’t seem remotely offended, but only faintly bemused as he looked at her.

“What?”

“I just…I mean…you don’t _honestly_ think…” Lydia trailed off and stared at him long enough that she nearly tripped at the bottom of the escalator before she recovered her footing. “…you’re serious?”

“It’d be a pretty weak joke if I wasn’t,” said Felix dryly. “Tuck and Cora were breathtaking.”

“They were,” agreed Lydia. “But that was a very showy waltz. It’s not quite like that in the competitive circuits, but of course the choreography’s always being tweaked to appeal to the television audience rather than the classical judges. Every now and then I have to bite back the kind of knee-jerk comments I know aren’t fair, if the dancers are simply doing what they’ve been shown or asked to do.”

“Like what?” Felix seemed genuinely curious as the train pulled up to the platform and they got on-board and found a pair of seats in the almost empty carriage.

“Too many lifts,” said Lydia. “Ten years ago I’d’ve gotten chewed out by my teachers for letting my feet leave the ground like that.”

“The lifts are the best part!”

“You _would_ say that,” she said. “Ballet is almost nothing _but_ lifts, for you.”

“Well, not anymore,” said Felix, and Lydia could have winced and kicked herself in one.

“God…sorry,” she said contritely.

“Nah, I’ll get back to it, eventually,” he said easily.

“Will you?”

“If I keep up with my physio…I could have maybe gone back by now, if I hadn’t…well, I didn’t exactly follow my doctor’s advice to the letter,” he admitted.

“ _Felix._ ”

“I know, I know!” he said.

“You know the kind of _damage_ you could…I mean, you’ve had some of the best and worst luck imaginable to even come through something like the injury you had, and now…”

She suddenly subsided, pressing her lips together into a firm line as she re-arranged her bag on her lap and visibly straining to hold her tongue.

“…tell me,” he urged her softly.

“I just think if you have the opportunity to be able to heal and go back to dancing…that’s not something to play around with or pass up.”

Felix regarded her with a fresh kind of wondering, his head tilting to one side with a look that was so gently inquiring that Lydia wanted to huddle down even further in her seat _and_ felt like the world’s biggest bitch.

“…is that why you’re judging?” he asked at last. “You don’t have to say, if you’d rather not.”

Lydia let out a long breath and shook her head. Had the man never picked up a copy of _Hello!_?

“No, no injuries on me,” she said at last. “Just…overtaken by events.” _And cowardice. And guilt._ “It’s all water under the bridge, now, anyway.”

“Do you want to go back to dancing?”

“It’s not as simple as wanting to, when it’s partner-work,” she said in a low voice, gritting her teeth and getting on with it. “I danced with my husband for the whole of my career, and then he left—he quit—and that was the end of it. It was the end of a lot of things. He was unhappy, and…I played a part in that. Things were said, and…the dance-world isn’t so large that I could get away from the fallout. The show was the best offer I could find to even stay in the realm of dance.”

“…I’m sorry,” said Felix. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Nah, it’s all on public record,” said Lydia, sitting up straighter and brushing some lint from her trouser-leg. “I’m not giving you an insider’s view of things. And I started it, badgering you about your back, anyway.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

“Thanks for attributing my interference to good intentions.”

“Generally speaking, most people have good intentions, even if they don’t realize it, themselves.”

Lydia leveled a look at him that was flatly disbelieving.

“…you are like a baby deer in the body of a grown man,” she said. Felix could only laugh at the accusation, with a good-natured shrug. “No, honestly—you turn to mush over a waltz, you’re still all starry-eyed even after seeing how the sausage gets made for a televised competition, and you believe in the bedrock _goodness_ of people?”

“I’m well-aware that my sense of romantic optimism is _deeply_ unfashionable,” allowed Felix.

“That’s…huh.” Lydia seemed baffled, and almost at a loss for words. “Must be lonely to be the last of a dying breed. Or like that one whale that sings in the wrong key, and none of the other whales can hear him.”

“You’re a cynic, then?”

“We call ourselves realists, now,” she said with a wry grin. “Look at the world. Really _look_ at it. It’s…everything is burning down around us.” It was perverse and painful, the way she felt like she had to goad him into admitting that bad things existed. She didn’t _want_ to, but then, she couldn’t stop herself, either.

“So why even do anything?” he countered. “Why bother trying?”

 “Exactly.”

“No, _you_ tell me why _you_ bother. Because you _do_ bother. You mentor these young dancers—and it’s _not_ just about the paycheque, for you--and if you see a problem, you just…cut to the heart of it, and find a solution. I’ve seen the way you handle things—you’re extremely competent.”

It was the most genuinely complimentary speech Lydia had heard in ages, and she felt her face get hot even as her soul squirmed beneath knowing the true extent of her ability to dodge and ignore several of her problems all at once. Other people’s problems— _those_ she could solve.

“I…just don’t want to do any more damage,” she said at last. “There’s enough free-floating shit in the universe without my contributing to it. It doesn’t mean I believe fairy-tale rubbish about deep-down goodness and that what’s right will find a way to win.”

“You’re using a lot of words to try to get around saying that you kind of agree with me.”

“I—don’t you tell me what I said, because that’s not…that’s _not what I said_ ,” she protested.

“Actions _do_ speak louder than words, though.”

“I don’t _do_ anything. Not really. It isn’t the bloody Peace Corps. It’s a judging panel.”

Hands in his coat pockets, Felix only smiled affably.

“Monty showed me the pictures you took at the Women’s March, last year.”

“ _Monty,_ ” muttered Lydia wrathfully, feeling weirdly backed into a corner where she was going to have to accept something like a compliment. But she would not—could not—allow Felix to imagine she wholeheartedly bought into his ridiculous sense of optimism.

“Are you going, this year?” he asked, too genial by half.

“ _Yes_ ,” she snapped, defeated and defensive. “Are _you_?” she added reflexively.

“…I mean…” He almost seemed suddenly shy, and Lydia felt marginally better. “…I’d like to. But, like…I feel like, as a man, maybe I should…wait to be invited, and not presume…”

“Fine, here’s your invitation, I’m inviting you, you are officially invited,” said Lydia.

“See? Problem-solving.”

“You’re maddeningly civil, sometimes, Felix,” she said with fond exasperation, though she was breathing more easily now that they’d gotten back to something more like regular banter. “Well, I’ll have to change trains at the next stop,” she said, standing along with the swaying of the train. “Where are you headed?”

“Uh…” Felix glanced up at the line map, picked a station at random. “Another couple of stops, for me.”

“Right. Well, I’ll text you where we’re meeting for the march, if I don’t talk to you before then,” she said, moving to the doors as the train began to slow to a stop.

“Great!”

Lydia decided she’d believe he was serious when she saw him actually turn up on time, but nonetheless she gave him a small smile and a wave as she stepped off the train, leaving Felix to ride alone to the next stop, where he crossed the platform and took the train returning the other way so he could get back to the lot where his Mark 2 was waiting, parked outside the office-building.

Felix was fumbling with his keys when he heard footsteps and looked up, smiling tightly when he saw Edmund heading for a sleek, low-slung sports-car.

“Meetings run late?” he said.

“You could say that,” said Edmund, grinning with a shade too much self-satisfaction as he disappeared behind the dark tinted glass and roared off towards the road, the tail-lights glowing red in the darkness as Felix slid behind the wheel of his car.

Glancing in his rear-view mirror, Felix was surprised to see a woman dart behind the car, walking swiftly in the direction of the bus-stop with her arms folded and her shoulders hunched. Even more surprising was that he realized he recognized her as one of the dancers who had been cut in the last round of auditions—a deeply sensitive young woman named Eliza, who had filmed a very touching piece with Monty about the tragic death of her fiancee last year, but whose skills simply hadn’t been enough to put her in the same class as the top ten dancers. Cutting her had been one of the hardest moments of the show, so far—Lydia had been the one to do her best to comfort and encourage the girl to keep practicing, keep improving, and perhaps return to them in a year or two. There had been floods of tears for the B-roll footage, but in the end, it was clear Eliza wasn’t ready to move forward in the competition.

“…Eliza?” Felix rolled down his window and slowed to a stop. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, hi! Yeah,” she said, smiling faintly. “Just…got out of a meeting. With Mr. Tavistock-Whitby.”

“Oh?”

“He’s just been so great, explaining everything to me, about how the show works, and how they need to manufacture drama and everything. So, I suppose I’ll be seeing more of you in a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?”

“Well, he explained how one of the top ten is a plant, and they’re going to fake an injury to boost viewership and buzz about the show sometime over the next couple of episodes, and then I’ll be brought in as the back-up to take their place.”

Felix fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, suddenly and deeply livid with his colleague. There was no way Edmund had any plans whatsoever to bring Eliza back onto the show, and Felix could only imagine one reason that man would be pretending otherwise when it came to an impressionable and pretty young woman. But the question was…now what? Did he contradict whatever lies his boss had fed her, shatter her illusions, and leave her to wait for her bus? Or did he let her cling to Edmund’s promises for however long that rat-bastard was going to string her along?

As dilemmas went, he knew he wasn’t going to find a satisfactory answer in the three seconds he had to contemplate his options, and that left a sour taste in his mouth that he knew was bound to linger.

“Well…keep practicing, anyway,” he said at last, to which Eliza nodded eagerly. “You really should keep dancing, Eliza,” he insisted. “No matter what. Just…don’t let anybody ruin it for you.”

“I won’t!” she promised, and Felix forced himself to put his car into gear and drive off into the night, swearing under his breath.

\---

“…I mean, can you _believe_ it?” said Felix, jamming the pink hat onto his head as he finished summarizing his suspicions.

“…yes,” said Lydia.

“ _Yes_?”

“I’ve worked with Edmund for over two years, Felix,” she pointed out, neither condescending nor self-pitying, but only ruthlessly prosaic about that fact. “It wouldn’t be the first time he’s…taken advantage of a situation.”

“But it’s wrong!”

Lydia drew a deep breath, her stomach churning uncomfortably.

“Edmund knows better than to put himself in a vulnerable position. Ethically, yes, he’s a boil on the arse of humanity, but everyone involved is an adult—”

“Barely!” interjected Felix with a snort, thinking of the sheer naivete on Eliza’s hopeful face.

“—if we went after every man who lied to a woman in pursuit of sex, we’d all die in harness.”

“Isn’t that why we’re out here?”

“…just pace yourself, Felix,” she suggested, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder as they began to push through the gathering crowd to where they’d arranged to meet up with Monty and his boyfriend. “It’s going to be a long day.”

A piercing whistle broke through the murmuring of the people around them, and Lydia could only laugh when _everybody_ turned to see the lanky ginger waving at them.

“So much for keeping low profiles…” she said as they joined Monty and Jeannot, who looked dressed for cold-weather Glastonbury.

“It’s like you don’t know me at _all_ ,” snorted Monty.

“I feel kind of bad,” said Jeannot, “that there are three of us, and one of you, and you’re…well…”

There was a beat of silence as they all looked down—way down—at Lydia.

“Well I wasn’t going to wear _heels_ on a _march_!”

“We can take turns carrying you,” suggested Monty.

“Felix is not allowed to lift _anybody_!” insisted Lydia.

“Up you get, Armstrong,” said Monty with a jerk of his head as he crouched down to let her—still rolling her eyes—clamber onto his shoulders. He stood rather unsteadily, making her yelp and totter, at which both Jeannot and Felix flinched as if to catch her before the pair of them wobbled upright and seemed to find their balance.

“This is a terrible idea,” said Lydia. “I’m not a student, I’m a grown—”

“You’re _tiny_. Give her the sign, Jeannot.”

“You made a—no. _No_ , I’m not holding—”

Felix was caught between outright laughter and blushing at what was written on the sign, though he could not disagree with the general sentiment of the demand, however…colourful the language was.

“My sister worked _very_ hard to come up with that turn of phrase,” said Monty. “Go on. We’re here to protest, so we’re going to bloody well _do it_.”

Something in Lydia’s eyes darkened, and her brows knit together with something more like determination as she slowly nodded.

“Give it here, then,” she said, taking a roll of throat lozenges from her coat pocket and tucking one inside her cheek before she tossed them down to Felix. “Safer shouting,” she explained, and he grinned as Jeannot passed the cardboard sign up to her for her to raise over her head as they turned with the tide of protesters headed for Downing Street.


End file.
